Upon waking, the minutes came loose from their dials like drops of honey, and the languid balconies let ribbons of clockwork run down to the warm cobblestones. Passersby, mustaches in the wind and pockets full of pillow-sand, try to gather the hour with porcelain spoons.
At dawn, the city slid across a griddle of tepid sky: the roofs, seized by drowsiness, yawn soft windows, while spoons planted in the sidewalks push out extra-long shadows. You can hear the bakers beating eggs of mist to make baguettes of distance, so long they go on vacation without leaving the shop window. The doors, jealous, have grown drawers in their hinges, and in them people store naps folded into eighths, still scented with sundown.
In the middle of the square, a cello shod in clogs chimes the hour with a purr, and each note melts a wedge of sun. Elephants, dizzy, advance on threadlike legs to the belfry, which they butter with silence so it will ring softly. The clouds, propped on sugar crutches, lean against the chimneys to listen to the paving tell its dreams of a river.
“I swear to you, time lost its head like a goat-clock: I saw it drink my reflection and spit back a future in glitter,” confides Eustache Mélopée, curator of the Museum of Vertical Naps, his cheek bearing the imprint of a dial. At his feet, a butterfly net captures seconds too light, while a very serious cat irons a map of chance with a warm iron, to smooth the avenues that crease in pockets.
This evening, rumor has it, the tide of time will return, slower still, to lay on the stoops shells of empty hours, ready to be stuffed with instant vacations. Our special edition will be printed on a cloth of foam: please read it before it dries and starts to crack, for then the words, like overripe peaches, will fall from the page, making a jam of news.
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